


All the Right Things at Exactly the Right Time

by dont_rainonmyparade



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, OC, beaubete, emily answers prompts, for beaubete, it sort of just ran away from me, oh lordy, we got ahold of prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dont_rainonmyparade/pseuds/dont_rainonmyparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond puts his foot in his mouth rather spectacularly. In answer to the prompt, "Things You Said I Wasn't Meant to Hear."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Right Things at Exactly the Right Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beaubete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/gifts).



> For @beaubete ~ everyone else enjoy too. ^.^ Come find me on tumblr so we can talk about these crazies. @emsdispatch

“Double-oh-seven, do you read me? Come in.”

“Double-oh-seven, I know where you are. Come in.”

“Double-oh-seven, your being within the walls of MI-6 does not entitle you to turn off your comms.”

Q knows he’s talking only to himself at this point. Much to his dismay, scolding the radio silence does not make him feel any better.

Mildly vexed, he lets his pen clatter to his desk. Typical Bond, to be departing the country in less than sixteen hours and attempt to fall off the radar.

But the man MI-6 is tailing has changed his flight reservation, and Bond needs to know. Except for the fact that Bond is currently refusing to communicate, which is certainly not attributable to the fact that four hours prior, Q had to break the news that there was absolutely no conceivable need for an Aston Martin, or any other luxury automobile, on this particular trip.

Damn the man with a license to kill. Q harrumphs, turns on his heel. “R, you’re in charge. Don’t let the double-ohs do anything…daft.” He pauses, eyes darting. “No, scratch that. Don’t let the double-ohs do anything, full stop.” 

R nods curtly, wide-eyed, but knowingly, and Q, cursing all the while, stalks off to hunt down Bond.

Just as his computers promised him, the man himself is at the shooting range, alongside Alec, and Grace, the new 008. Q pauses behind the tinted glass wall, some part of him enjoying the rare opportunity to watch his agents in person. Withholding information from Bond for two more minutes will do no harm, especially as Bond has already proved his disregard for the institution of time.

“Good shot, Grace, but let’s have another go. Six rounds, all fatal this time.”

Grace quirks her eyebrow. “Rather bloodthirsty today, aren’t you, Bond?”

Alec laughs heartily. “It’s the bad news he got about the car, I expect.”

Bond makes a noncommittal noise.

Grace laughs, and it’s a bubbly sound, from the youngest of the three. “Bond, didn’t you say just a few weeks ago that you had your Quartermaster wrapped around your little finger?”

Q’s eyes narrow. This is news. All of a sudden, his eavesdropping is rapidly becoming an exponentially better idea. Rather good, in fact, that Bond decided to behave like the prick he is. All things considered. 

Bond takes a shot. Q flinches. Given the state of the target, the double-oh couldn’t have been bothered to use words to answer the question.

“Didn’t you, though?” the young double-oh presses, despite the warning glance Alec gives her.

Bond presses his lips together, turns away. “I don’t recall using those words.”

But Alec makes a derisive noise. “Right, I remember. Twelve hours ago, you couldn’t give him the time of day. Now, you defend him. It doesn’t take a genius, Bond.” He leans back, folding his arms.

“Piss off,” Bond mutters, and takes another shot. “The mission does not require a sports car. It’s no more complicated than that.”

“Your relationship with our Quartermaster is hardly uncomplicated,” Alec disagrees. “Anyone with eyes can see him making doe-eyes at you.”

Q’s jaw drops. 

“Meanwhile,” Grace pipes up, “you send him so many mixed messages that it’s no surprise you work in espionage.”

Bond’s stare at the young agent is a sideways, befuddled one, as if he is mildly surprised that women in the twenty-first century have opinions and also share them, unbidden.

He straightens, clears his throat. “Right, that’s enough. We all know it doesn’t matter if the Quartermaster throws himself at my feet, which he certainly will not do.”

Q sniffs, nodding to himself. He may be a boffin, but he is a dignified boffin; he certainly will not do any such ridiculous and decidedly un-English thing. He feels a touch of affection for his least favorite – or is it most favorite? – double-oh.

“In fact,” Bond continues, “if he were so inclined, he could throw himself at my feet. But our relationship, if you must use the phrase,” he goes on, with a dark look at Alec, “is professional. It has only ever been professional, and professional is the only thing it will ever be.”

Any affection Q may have thought he’d felt for Bond quickly vanishes – just the same way it arrived. The Quartermaster blinks.

“If you say so, Bond,” Grace shrugs magnanimously, taking aim at the target again and firing another round.

“I’m surprised at you, James,” Alec says, the corners of his lips turning up wryly. “Always thought deadly-even-in-just-pants was your exactly type.”

“My type?” asks Bond, and with that tone, Q has the horrid sensation that he’s about to watch a train wreck – except it’s the sort where he is the passenger trapped in the rails, and Bond is the oncoming train. 

“What – Q, my type? Scrawny, bookish, not a measure of common sense, daft when you take his technology away, no-nonsense, can’t banter to save his life, would probably have to save his life if he ever accidentally wandered into the field…Q, my type?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “Goodness, no.”

In the next moment, three things happen very quickly.

One – Alec frowns, wonders if he has ever heard Bond string so many words together at once.

Two – Q strides to the door and into the shooting range, tugging on the doorknob slightly more aggressively than is strictly necessary. His face is inscrutable.

Three – James has the grace to look more than a little perturbed. From the look on Q's face, he wonders briefly if he will ever have the privilege to lay eyes on another sports car. If anyone could prevent such a thing from happening, the Quartermaster could.

Q folds his hands, the picture of barely-restrained and justified wrath. “Double-oh-seven,” he says clearly. “Good morning.” He is quiet for a moment, allowing the silence in the room to weigh heavily.

Q adjusts his glasses. “I’d ask you how you are, except that you’ve clearly indicated you’re still the same self-righteous, self-concerned, utter prick that you are on every single day of your life.”

Bond is silent, equally inscrutable.

“When you feel you may be able to act like the adult that I suppose you must be at least once in a blue moon, or perhaps more accurately, when you can be bothered – do us all a favor, Bond, and take your work seriously, for once. I expect you in Q-Branch as soon as possible, and that’s non-negotiable.” He shifts, folding his arms. “Come and see me when you’re ready to do your goddamn job.”

It’s only when the door closes behind Q again that Alec makes an appreciative noise. “Can’t banter to save his life, eh? For a change, Bond, now it might be your life that needs saving.”


End file.
